Island of the Zombies
by The Noble Platypus
Summary: AU S1. Chapter 8: Sayid disappears, and we can't have that. Jack's still an idiot.
1. Ethan Rises

It was inevitable. I'm writing "Lost" fanfiction. I'm writing extremely AU, zombie-related "Lost" fanfiction. This is going to be so much fun!

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Several hundred yards away from the beach, there was a clearing that had once been rather peaceful. But just that day, two men had entered the clearing with a third man between them, mucked about with the landscaping, dropped their friend off, and left. Now there was an unsightly mound of dirt that the clearing did not much appreciate. The Island had certain standards of attractiveness that had to be met, and the shallow grave didn't even have a crude cross or a few scattered flowers. As it stood, it was little more than a dark blemish on an otherwise lovely stretch of moonlit grass. It was things like this, thought the clearing, that would get one demoted to jungle.

The low mound of dirt quite suddenly shifted into a higher mound. The clearing watched with profound unease as dirt began to trickle off of the grave and into the grass. The pile of earth shuddered and quaked, sending numerous, miniature brown avalanches cascading down towards the ground. Then an exceedingly pale hand emerged from the top of the pile, followed shortly by the arm to which it was attached. The clearing had never seen anything like this before.

For a moment, the arm flailed about in a befuddled fashion, then it began to clumsily scrape away more of the dirt. A minute of this led to the triumphant emergence of Ethan Rom's head.

His face was the ghastly shade of grayish white usually reserved for Minnesotans after a long winter. Dark circles complimented his eyes, which had gone from brown to eerily pale. His stare, however, was as blank and vacant as it had always been. He opened his mouth, releasing a small amount of dirt and a very relieved worm.

"Uuurrrrrrggghhhhh," he announced.

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Charlie woke up for what felt like the twentieth time, but was actually only the eighteenth. He had been trying to sleep, but all he had been able to manage was a series of catnaps. He sat up, rubbed his face wearily, and checked to make sure Claire was still sleeping safely by her fire. She was, making him feel both intense relief and slight envy. If only he could sleep like that, without dreaming of suffocation or seeing Ethan's death replayed over and over like a looped movie clip projected against his eyelids.

Not that he _minded_ seeing Ethan die multiple times; something about it was very satisfying. But at the same time, it made sleeping difficult. So Charlie stood up, stretched, and picked his way around the various slumbering forms and out of the caves.

It was nearly dawn, that time of the morning where it's just bright enough to see and the world seems comprised solely of shades of blue. Without really thinking about his destination, Charlie began to walk. And when his feet took him to the edge of the clearing where they had buried Ethan, he wasn't particularly surprised.

He was surprised, however, that no one seemed to be buried there anymore.

Charlie stared at the grave for several long moments, unable or unwilling to comprehend what he was seeing. There was dirt everywhere, scattered for several feet around the gaping hole that was conspicuously short one corpse. Ethan was gone.

Once that undeniable truth struck him, Charlie was overcome by a boiling wave of rage. _He can't be gone! I put him in the bloody ground! It was _done, _damn it!_ He stepped into the clearing, walked over to the grave, and glared down at it as if it had spat Ethan out on purpose. The grave, for its part, still failed to be anything but very, very empty.

A rustle from behind him prompted Charlie to whirl around. There, much to his surprise, stood Ethan.

"You're _dead_!" Charlie cried, his voice rising several octaves above normal as he backed hurriedly away. Unfortunately for Charlie, that meant backing straight into the grave. One foot landed in the hole, there were a few tense moments of frantic, circular arm movements, and then Charlie toppled over backwards, landing unceremoniously on the other side of the shallow depression. He scrambled to his feet as quickly as possible, surprised he hadn't already been hauled up and pinned to a tree.

Ethan was still standing near the edge of the clearing, his head lolling to one side as he regarded Charlie with vacuous eyes. He swayed slightly on his feet, and then took a few slow, crooked steps forward.

"Urrrrrrrgh," he said.

Charlie gaped at this new, much less threatening version of Ethan in confusion. The Ethan he remembered would have been on him inside three seconds and delivering threats and ultimatums inside five. But all _this_ Ethan did was shuffle about, say "urrrggghhh" as if he had a terrible hangover, and drool slightly. It was almost disappointing.

Keeping a wary eye on the other man, Charlie bent over and picked up a rock. Ethan continued to stagger towards Charlie at a sedate pace. Clenching his jaw, Charlie wound up and hurled the rock as hard as he could. The missile hit Ethan's shoulder with a loud thwack.

Ethan staggered back a pace, paused for several long moments, then slowly turned his head and looked down at his shoulder with a baffled "uuuurrrgghh?" It was, without a doubt, the most delayed reaction Charlie had ever seen.

Encouraged by this, he looked around for his weapon of choice: a stick. Ethan was still staring at his shoulder and groaning pensively to himself. Charlie found a stick, gripped it tightly, and edged towards Ethan, who seemed to have forgotten Charlie was there. In fact, the undead man didn't even look up until after Charlie had walloped him three or four times.

"Uuurrgh!" Ethan said, sounding somewhat offended.

"Why - won't - you - die?" Charlie grunted between swings.

"Urgh!" Ethan swiped at Charlie, who dodged the blow easily enough.

The next few minutes consisted of Charlie dancing around Ethan and smacking him repeatedly with the stick while Ethan shuffled in a circle and occasionally made feeble grasps at Charlie. On the upside, Charlie was having a very easy time keeping himself out of harm's way… but on the downside, his best efforts with the stick seemed to be having little effect. After one last frustrated smack, Charlie backed a safe distance away, breathing heavily.

"Urrrgh," Ethan grumbled, taking an unsteady step sideways and looking at Charlie.

Charlie swung the stick thoughtfully as he tried to determine the best course of action. "Wanker," he muttered, more to make himself feel better than to get a reaction. Ethan gave Charlie a blank stare and said nothing.

It was clear to Charlie that he wasn't going to be able to finish Ethan off on his own. He needed help. And he needed help _fast_, before Ethan caught someone unawares. No one who saw the guy coming would be in danger, but it was early and some people were undoubtedly still asleep.

Having made up his mind, Charlie lifted the stick above his head and waved it back and forth. "Hey, Ethan! See the stick?"

"Urrrgh," Ethan replied, slowly tilting his head up to look at the stick as it swung through the air.

"See it? You want the stick? Huh?" Charlie waved it enticingly as he would to a dog. "You want it? GO GET IT!" He chucked it into the jungle. Ethan stared blankly at Charlie's empty hand for a moment, then laboriously turned toward the jungle and took a few steps in the general direction of where the stick had gone. As soon as he wasn't looking, Charlie bolted for the caves.

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I know it's short, but I'm going to stop it here for now. Don't worry, more shall come. ;) Let me know what you thought! Feedback is always appreciated.

Platy


	2. Minor Panic

Time for chapter two! But first, some brief notes on this fic:

It's going to be AU, and will not remotely follow the episodes on TV. And though this is a zombie story, it will be more along the lines of "Shaun of the Dead" or "Dead Alive" than any truly frightening zombie flick you may have seen. The undead can be funny! And, just to let you know, I'm not a big fan of the hero doctor, so if his characterization is less than flattering, that's why.

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Disclaimer: I do not own "Lost," nor do I own the concept of the living dead.

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Charlie ran for the caves as fast as his legs could carry him, trying to reassure himself that Ethan could and would be stopped before he hurt anyone. Charlie wasn't sure what Ethan would do to someone if he had the chance, but he didn't think "kill them and eat their face" was entirely out of the question.

Unfortunately, the first person Charlie came across was the one castaway notorious for ignoring the legitimate concerns of terrified people, but he didn't have time to be picky.

"Jack!" he cried breathlessly, running up to the doctor and skidding to a halt.

"What is it, Charlie?" Despite the fact that Jack didn't appear to be doing anything of importance, he was still using his I'm-a-busy-doctor-and-I-don't-have-time-for-your-petty-issues voice.

"It's Ethan! He's…" Charlie thought about saying "alive," but decided that might not be the best choice of words. "He's back."

"Back?" Jack repeated, raising his eyebrows.

"Yes! He climbed out of the ground and now," Charlie trailed off at Jack's skeptical expression, but then finished, "he's back. We have to do something, or he'll-"

"Charlie, calm down."

"I _won't_ bloody calm down!" Charlie knew he sounded ridiculous, but he didn't care. "Didn't you hear me? He's _out there_-"

"Look," Jack said, raising his hands in a placating gesture, "whatever you thought you saw out there…"

"Thought I saw?" Charlie interrupted indignantly.

"The fact is, Ethan's dead, Charlie. You shot him four times-"

_"Seven_ times," Charlie interrupted again, annoyed that people kept getting the number wrong.

"Whatever," Jack said, sounding exasperated. "The point is, there's no way he could have survived that." He looked Charlie over, his expression changing from one of exasperation to one of professional concern. "Look, shooting him like that must have been pretty traumatic for you. Maybe-"

Charlie could see where this was headed. "I don't want to hear your psychoanalytical buggerall," he said hotly. "If you won't believe me, I'll find someone who will." He shoved his way past Jack and back into the caves. Maybe Locke would be around…

"Charlie?" Claire was sitting up next to her fire, diary in hand.

Not sure whether to be bothered by the delay or happy to talk to Claire, Charlie paused. "Hey, Claire."

She hesitated, looking at him in an annoyingly perceptive way. "Is something wrong?"

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Oh, no, there's nothing wrong at all. It's just that the maniac who kidnapped us both, strung me up, took you into the jungle and did God-only-knows-what to you for two weeks isn't quite as dead as we all had hoped. Charlie sighed. He wasn't about to lie to her after what had happened last time, but he didn't want to worry her, either. So he gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Nothing I can't take care of."

She gave him a searching look, then lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug and smiled sheepishly. "Sorry… I just thought you looked a bit…"

"It's fine," Charlie said, waving a hand dismissively. Then he shifted uncomfortably, needing to leave but not really wanting to. "I'll be back soon, okay?"

"Sure," Claire said with a smile that wasn't sheepish at all. She bent back over her diary, and Charlie made himself turn away and continue through the caves, looking for Locke.

Instead, he found Steve. In fact, he very nearly bowled Steve over in his haste. He was a bit surprised to see him in the caves; he'd thought Steve was staying on the beach. But then again, if Charlie had had a twin brutally murdered on the beach, he imagined _he'd_ want a change of scenery, as well.

Steve blinked at Charlie in surprise, then stepped out of his way. "Sorry," he muttered.

"No, my fault," Charlie replied. After toying with the idea of offering his condolences, he decided it would be awkward and instead just cut to the chase. "Have you seen Locke around?" Steve gave him a mystified look. "You know," Charlie elaborated, "the bald guy with the extensive knife collection?"

"Oh, him." Steve shook his head, and Charlie got the impression that this guy had gotten less sleep than he had. "No, sorry. What's the big hurry?"

"Well…" Charlie rocked back on his heels, wondering what to say. "There's sort of a… situation near the beach."

"What kind of situation?"

After the reaction he'd gotten from Jack, Charlie wasn't sure if he wanted to go telling just anyone about Ethan. But Steve looked very interested, and was probably in need of some sort of distraction… and really, if anyone had a _right_ to know Ethan was back, the twin brother of one of his victims certainly did. Charlie looked thoughtfully at Steve. "I'll show you. Come on."

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"Bloody hell," Charlie hissed after skidding into the clearing. Ethan was no longer there.

Steve jogged up behind him and stopped, breathing hard after the run. He looked around the clearing and shook his head. "We ran all the way down here for this?"

"No," Charlie said testily, nibbling his lip and looking around the clearing. _Where had he gone?_

"What happened here?" Charlie turned around. Steve was standing by Ethan's gravesite and nudging clods of dirt with his shoe. He looked at Charlie and raised his eyebrows. "This _is_ the 'situation' you were talking about, right?"

Charlie sighed and nodded at the empty grave. "That's where we buried Ethan."

An unidentifiable expression flitted across Steve's face at the name "Ethan," but he quickly composed himself. "He doesn't appear to be buried here."

"And that would be the situation I was talking about." Charlie picked up a long stick and used it to start poking through the bushes surrounding the clearing. Maybe Ethan had just stumbled a short distance away. _Please let him have stumbled a short distance away…_

"So… someone took the body?" Charlie jumped; Steve was standing right behind him, watching him poke through the shrubbery.

"No," Charlie said through gritted teeth, fighting back a growing sense of frustration. "The body climbed out on its own."

There was a long silence from Steve, followed by a snort of amusement. "What, you mean like a zombie or something?"

_"No_," Charlie shifted nervously. "Well… sort of."

There was another long silence from Steve, followed by a little giggle. "Are you on _crack_?"

Charlie gritted his teeth in profound irritation. "This isn't some kind of _joke_, all right?" He whirled around to glare at Steve and squeaked in surprise.

Ethan was in the middle of the clearing, staggering determinedly toward them.

"What?" Steve asked, looking at Charlie's horrified expression in confusion. He turned to follow Charlie's gaze and jumped. "Holy _shit_!"

"Urrrgghhhh," Ethan groaned in disappointment at being discovered so close to his goal.

"I _told_ you!" Charlie prodded Ethan's chest with the tip of his stick, grateful that he had picked a good, long one.

"Urgh!" Ethan swatted at the stick, missed, and was carried several feet sideways by his momentum.

"What's that all over his face?" Steve inquired from behind Charlie. The region around Ethan's mouth was, Charlie suddenly noticed, liberally smeared with something that, in a perfect world, would have been catsup. But they were not in a perfect world, they were on an island of mystery in the middle of nowhere.

"Catsup?" Charlie guessed anyway.

"Yeah, right," Steve muttered shakily.

"You asked," Charlie replied with a shrug.

"Urrrrrgh," Ethan glared sullenly at the pair, then lifted a hand. He had a dead rat clutched in his fingers. As Charlie and Steve watched, Ethan took a large, sloppy bite.

"Ugh," Steve commented.

"At least it explains the blood," Charlie said, quite relieved that Ethan hadn't killed any castaways.

"Urrrgmph," Ethan grumbled as he chewed.

"What the hell are we going to do about him?"

"I've tried killing him with a stick," Charlie said with a shrug, "but it hasn't exactly worked, as you can see. I'm open to suggestions." Ethan took a step towards them, and Charlie prodded him back again.

"Because I was a professional zombie-killer back in the real world," Steve said sarcastically. "If killing him _doesn't work_, I'm about all out of ideas, Chuck."

"Don't call me Chuck," Charlie muttered, poking Ethan with the stick some more. "Fine, neither of us have any ideas. I'll keep Ethan busy. You go find Locke and bring him down here. He'll know what to do," he said with considerably more confidence than he felt.

"Right." Steve started to edge back toward the caves, then paused. "Locke's the… uh… bald one?"

"Yes. He'll probably be hanging around with Boone, the pretty boy whose eyes are too close together," Charlie snapped impatiently. "Anything else?"

"No. Well…" Steve hesitated again. "Good luck. Charlie."

"Thanks," Charlie replied, somewhat taken aback. But Steve was already gone.

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There's a somewhat longer chapter! Now for reviewer responses!

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cryogenie: If you spewed your goldfish crackers all over your laptop, my job is done. ;) Thanks bunches for the review! It made me giggle!

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Anamaria Elentari: Yes! Chah-lie, indeed! Glad you're enjoying it!

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Satara: I DID notice those things! And I love "Young Frankenstein!" Such a funny movie. Don't worry, I'm having way to much fun with this fic to NOT keep it up.

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Quirky Writer: I could… my goodness, the possibilities are limitless! I shall have to consider this most carefully. ;)

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Megan Sleevewillow: So did I. ;) Lost rocks!

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Ember the angry Firedrake: Don't worry, all of the zombies will be more amusing than frightening. For the most part, anyway.

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FrighteninglyObsessed: A lot of people were wondering that same thing, apparently. :P Thank you!

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Kath: I am particularly proud of that line. Hehehe. Yeah, we shall have to have another one!

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Mint Sauce: Accurate characterization from _me_? That's the scariest thing of all! ;)

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Medea12: Hehehe! Yeah, well…

Thanks for the reviews, everyone! Hope this chapter pleases.

Platy


	3. Failed Attempts

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Disclaimer: No rats were harmed in the making of this fanfic. It was already dead when we found it.

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Keeping a zombie busy, Charlie reflected, was probably the easiest job he had ever taken on. All he had to do was keep his stick between himself and Ethan, and prod Ethan back into the clearing if he showed any inclination towards leaving. And since Ethan's mental and physical capabilities were decidedly unimpressive, Charlie rarely had to do even that. For the most part, they just stood there and eyed one another balefully.

"Uuuuuuurrrrrrrgggghhhhh," Ethan said.

"I concur," Charlie replied flatly, giving him an extra prod with the stick for no particular reason. Ethan looked down at the stick, made a half-hearted swipe at it, then went back to chewing on his rat.

Just as Charlie was toying with the idea of sitting down for a bit, Steve came running into the clearing with Locke and Boone right behind him. Ethan turned to look at the newcomers and groaned at them by way of greeting.

"There he is," Steve said, gesturing toward Ethan as one would toward a car in great need of repair. Locke squinted at the zombie in a curious, calculating way; Boone just wrinkled his nose and looked perturbed.

"Any ideas as to how to kill this thing?" Charlie asked.

Locke paced around the zombie for a minute, looking thoughtful. "What have you tried?"

"Whacking him about the head with a stick, mostly," Charlie replied, turning a little bit pink. In retrospect, it seemed like a pretty pathetic attempt. But he hadn't had any other weapons at his disposal, whereas Locke had ten thousand knives.

"Show me," Locke said mildly. It wasn't a request. Charlie hesitated, and Locke smiled at him. "I just want to see what's been done, that's all."

"Right," Charlie said. He hefted the stick, then hauled off and whacked Ethan upside the head as hard as he could. The zombie staggered forward several paces, then straightened, turned slowly, and gave Charlie a reproachful "uuurrrggghhh."

"I see," Locke said.

"Maybe you should try stabbing it through the heart or something," Boone offered, rubbing the back of his neck.

"No, that's how you'd handle a vampire," Locke said absently. "Zombies are a different breed."

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"Uuurrrggghhh," Ethan said vengefully, taking several shaky steps towards Charlie.

"You _know_ about zombies?" Charlie stared at Locke, not sure if he should really be surprised or not.

Locke shrugged. "Anyone who watches television knows how to deal with a zombie, Charlie, including yourself. Aim for the head." He grinned as he slid one of his many knives out of his belt. He gripped the knife by its tip, aimed carefully, and flung it at the back of Ethan's head.

Charlie didn't see the knife hit home. He just saw Ethan freeze, look slightly startled, then topple forward to land face-first on the grass. The knife was buried about an inch and a half deep in Ethan's skull.

"What kind of television do you _watch_?" Steve asked with something akin to awe in his voice.

"The Lifetime channel," Locke deadpanned. He walked up to Charlie, who was staring down at Ethan in surprise, and clapped him on the shoulder. "If you have any more problems, let me know." He turned to leave, Boone trailing obediently behind him.

"Wait," Charlie said. Locke turned back around and looked quizzically at him. "Your knife," Charlie explained, gesturing towards Ethan's prone form.

"I've got plenty," Locke said, waving a hand dismissively. He paused, then added, "You can take it, if you want."

"Thanks," Charlie said uncertainly, looking down at Ethan. He felt much more comfortable touching him with a long stick than he did touching him with his hands. "You know what?" he said to Ethan's corpse as soon as Locke and Boone had disappeared, "I think I'll let you keep it." He stared at the body for a few moments, then turned and headed back to the caves.

"You're just going to leave the thing there?" Steve asked, jogging a bit to catch up.

"Just for a while," Charlie assured him. "I want Jack to see him before I bury him again." He smiled a little, relishing the idea of proving the all-knowing doctor wrong. "I tried to tell him about Ethan earlier, and he acted like I was unbalanced," Charlie explained when Steve gave him a questioning look.

"Ah," Steve nodded. They walked in a companionable silence for a few minutes. Then Steve started to chuckle softly to himself.

"What?"

Steve grinned and shook his head. "I can't believe we were just dealing with a zombie. That's _insane_! He was going 'urrrgghh' and everything!" Steve demonstrated sarcastically, holding his arms out stiffly in front of him.

"That's _The Mummy_," Charlie said, cracking up.

"No, it's not!"

"Yes, it _is_!"

By the time they made it back to the caves, they were both cackling so hard they could barely stand up. Jack looked up from his Bag O' Drugs and stared at them, clearly unsure as to whether he should look amused or worried.

"Jack!" Charlie walked up to the doctor, grinning from ear to ear. "Good news. Locke has killed Ethan; Steve and I are witnesses."

Jack raised his eyebrows. "Are you serious?"

"Oh, yes," Charlie nodded as seriously as he could. "If you don't believe us, you can go to that clearing where we buried him and see for yourself. Or ask Locke."

"Or Boone," Steve supplied.

"Right," Jack said slowly, regarding them both with his typical, doubting Thomas expression. "I'll be sure to do that."

"Excellent," Charlie said with a victorious grin before sauntering off to get some water.

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It had occurred to Charlie that Jack might think the body lying there with a knife in its skull had been some kind of sick, elaborate prank. But he hadn't worried much about it, because he did have quite a few witnesses. In fact, he had managed to forget about the zombie incident entirely for an hour or so as he talked with Claire.

But it all came rushing back when Jack beckoned him over to the makeshift infirmary, a concerned expression on his face. Charlie had tried to wave him off - he'd been in the middle of telling Claire a joke involving a penguin, an auto mechanic, and an ice cream cone - but Jack was insistent. So, after assuring Claire that he'd be right back, he climbed to his feet and walked over to where Jack was standing.

The doctor cut right to the chase. "I went to that clearing, Charlie."

"Oh. Good," Charlie replied cautiously, unnerved by Jack's tone of voice.

"I didn't see any zombies."

Charlie blinked, then nodded in sudden understanding. "He _was_ a zombie," he clarified, "before Locke killed him. It probably looked like just a corpse to you."

"That's not what I meant, Charlie. There was nothing there, not even a body. All I found was this." He held up a knife and raised his eyebrows.

"But… that's the knife Locke used to…" Charlie trailed off, looking at the knife with growing horror. "Oh, hell, he's _still not dead_?"

"Look," Jack said patiently, "I saw how the grave was disturbed; I'm guessing some boars got into it. And I'm sure having Ethan's body disappear was hard for you to deal with…"

"You don't understand," Charlie cut in, struggling to keep his voice down. "I'm not a lunatic; four of us saw him!"

"I'm not saying you're crazy," Jack said in the kind of voice meant to soothe the violently insane, "I'm just saying that maybe you need to get a little more rest, that's all. You look like you didn't get much sleep last night. I can give you a mild sedative-"

"Oh, because that worked so well for _Claire's_ problems, didn't it?" Charlie snapped. Claire looked up and frowned at the sound of her name, then struggled to her feet and walked over. Jack let loose a little sigh of exasperation.

"What's going on?" Claire asked in a tone of voice that demanded a straight answer.

"This is really between Charlie and I," Jack said, looking pointedly from Claire to her fire and back a few times.

"That's funny," Claire said dryly, not moving an inch, "because I _thought_ I just heard my name pop up in this conversation that has nothing to do with me."

There was an uncomfortable pause.

"It's not really about you," Charlie ventured. "It's about Ethan."

"Charlie's under a lot of stress right now-" Jack began, but Claire cut him off.

"Wait." She turned to Charlie. "What about Ethan?"

"Well," Charlie said delicately, "remember how I seemed a bit distracted this morning?" Claire nodded. "Yes. Well, you see, the _reason_ I was acting that way was because Ethan had sort of… you know… turned into a zombie." There. The truth was out.

Claire stared hard at him for several long moments, during which Charlie could feel himself growing increasingly red. "Ethan turned into a zombie?" she repeated.

"Yes. Four of us saw him," Charlie tried not to whine. He stared at the ground, not much wanting to see the looks he was undoubtedly receiving.

"Charlie, I want to know what's really going on," Claire said quietly.

"That _is_ what's going on!" Charlie made himself look up at her. "I'm not lying to you, Claire. And if I was, don't you think I'd make up something at least _remotely_ plausible?" That earned him a small smile. "I mean, honestly," Charlie added with a little more confidence, "zombies? That's bloody ridiculous!"

"I agree," Jack intoned. But before the doctor could grab Charlie and force sedatives down his throat, Locke and Boone entered the caves to refill their water bottles (much to Charlie's relief).

"Locke!" Charlie waved him over. "We have a problem."

"And what is the nature of this problem?" Locke asked, sauntering over and immediately glancing at his knife in Jack's hand.

"Jack went to the clearing, and that's all he found," Charlie said, gesturing towards the weapon.

Locke stared at the knife; its tip was slightly bloody. "That is a problem," he said, folding his arms and staring pensively in an upward direction. "When we find him, we may have to remove the head entirely."

Claire looked from Locke to Charlie and back. "You're both serious about this zombie thing?"

Locke gave a grim little nod; Charlie just shrugged apologetically.

"Will you listen to yourselves?" Jack shook his head, still stuck in Doubting Doctor mode. "Zombies don't exist!"

"Neither do polar bears in tropical locations, but we seem to have at least one of those," Locke said mildly. "Try to keep an open mind, doctor." He turned to address Charlie and Boone (who had, of course, followed Locke over). "Ethan isn't dangerous as long as you see him coming. But this means people have to be warned. Boone, you and I will secure the caves and make sure everyone is aware of the situation. Charlie, go down to the beach and make sure everyone down there is warned. And take this," he added, grabbing the knife out of Jack's hand and placing it in Charlie's. "It's not perfect, but it's more effective than a stick."

"Right," Charlie said, bewildered by the sudden onslaught of planning and still trying to process half of what Locke had said. The Great White Hunter smiled his trademark creepy grin and moved off with Boone. Jack rolled his eyes and stormed off grumpily, probably to find Kate and complain to her. Charlie continued to stare stupidly down at the knife, and didn't snap out of his reverie until Claire laid a hand on his arm.

"Charlie?"

He blinked and looked up at her.

Claire removed her hand and glanced away for a moment, nibbling her lower lip. Then she turned her eyes back towards him. "This is for real?"

Charlie nodded. "Most unfortunately."

Claire echoed the nod, a thoughtful expression on her face as her arms encircled her sizeable belly. "Are we safe here?"

"Oh, definitely." Charlie managed a small smile. "Zombie Ethan is much less dangerous now than he was back when he was alive. As long as you see him coming, there's really nothing to worry about. I mean, his top speed is 'mosey.' And you've got Locke to protect you, so…" Realizing that he was beginning to babble, Charlie shut his mouth.

"And you," Claire added.

Charlie blinked, not quite understanding what she meant. "What?"

"Locke _and you_," she clarified, the corners of her mouth quirking upwards into the tiniest and briefest of smiles. Charlie abruptly got it and felt his ears beginning to turn red.

"I should get to the beach," he mumbled, wanting very much to stay right where he was.

Claire nodded and turned back towards her little camp. She took a few steps, then paused and turned her head. "Be careful, Charlie."

"I'll be careful," Charlie said with a reassuring smile. Then he forced himself to turn away and walk out of the caves before he could change his mind.

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Where the heck did that romantic bit come from? (looks suspiciously up at brain)

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GamgeeFest: Hahaha! He is kind of cute, in an undead, creepy way. :P And don't worry… all of the main characters will make appearances eventually.

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cryogenie: Oh, Mello Yello… be careful with that stuff. ;) I liked that line as well… it's a double-jab for poor Charlie. And they TOTALLY are! It cracks me up. Thanks for the review; yours always make me giggle aloud.

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Megan Sleevewillow: Hehehe! (points to disclaimer)

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Anamaria Elentari: Oh, and there's so much more to come…

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Satara: Quite a few people have come out of the closet about disliking Jack, actually. And Sayid will be coming up next chapter!

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Medea12: DUN DUN DUN! Locke didn't kill the zombie! Oh, noes!

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salvory: Why, thank you! More chapters are on the way!

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Ember the angry Firedrake: Everyone's loving the Jack bashing:P Heh, I'd like to see your sister's reaction after you point out the unnaturally close proximity of Boone's eyes to one another.

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Stahlfan125: I'm so glad you think my characters are IC! Seriously, it always surprises me when I manage it. Jack bashers, unite!

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Esmarelda Gamgee: Thank you! I have:D

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Pointy Ears Are My Thing: Hahaha poppies! That would be hilarious… Ethan's people are drug farmers!

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FrighteninglyObsessed: Yeah, apparently Jack isn't perfect, either… but they've been very slow about showing us what his big flaws are, if you don't count his crippling need to always be right. Glad I amuse, though:P

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Mint Sauce: You're like my unofficial beta! (hugs) The Chair bit was thrown in just for you. ;)

Thanks for the reviews, you guys! I really appreciate them!

Platy


	4. Further Complications

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Disclaimer: The premise of this fanfic is completely ridiculous. You know, just in case you hadn't figured that out already.

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Charlie was striding down to the beach in a generally morose fashion when Steve caught up to him.

"Hey," he said, falling into step beside Charlie. "Locke said something happened."

"Ethan is still at large," Charlie explained, fidgeting with the knife as he walked. "Locke reckons we'll just have to take his whole head off, assuming we _find_ him." He glanced nervously into the underbrush, as if Ethan might stagger out and "urrrgh" at them at any moment.

"No one even knows where he _is_?"

"Nope." Charlie smiled without humor. "He could be anywhere."

"Huh." Steve fell silent for about a minute. "So... we are going where?"

"To the beach. We have to warn everyone."

Steve snorted. "'Hey, everyone, just to let you know, there's a zombie in the jungle.'"

"That's the general idea," Charlie said, raising his eyebrows. He had been trying to figure out a way to phrase the warning that _wouldn't_ get him laughed clear off the beach, and wasn't having much luck.

"That'll go over well, I'm sure," Steve said lightly.

"I wasn't going to say that _exactly_," Charlie replied, trying not to sound too nettled.

"What _were_ you going to say?" Steve actually looked politely interested, not sarcastic. Charlie shrugged in response.

"I'll figure it out when we get there." Charlie was then dismayed to see that they had, in fact, just reached the beach. He glared accusingly at the sand for not providing him with an answer; out of the corner of his eye, he could see Steve fighting back an ironic grin.

"Well, then," Charlie muttered to himself. After a brief internal debate, he decided the best person to notify would be Sayid. He seemed like a capable guy; he'd probably dealt with zombie insurgents in Iraq or something.

It didn't take Charlie long to spot Sayid and Shannon lounging under a tarp. They were trying to appear engrossed in some maps as opposed to one another, and weren't (in Charlie's opinion) fooling anyone. He felt an odd rush of satisfaction in interrupting them.

"Hey," Charlie said, stopping in front of Sayid's makeshift table.

"Charlie," Sayid said evenly, raising his eyebrows slightly and giving off faint go-away-why-don't-you vibes. But Charlie refused to be deterred.

"We have a bit of a problem," Charlie said delicately, still not sure how to bring up the particular _nature_ of this problem without sounding like a imbecile. Shannon squinted up at him in a mixture of curiosity and annoyance, her hair far more perfect than it had any right to be.

"What kind of problem?" Sayid sat up and looked more attentive.

"Well," Charlie hesitated. The moment of truth. "There's a, er, zombie. In the jungle." Steve let out a suspicious string of coughs; Charlie turned his head to glare at him.

Shannon snorted. "A _what_?" Sayid looked as if he was trying very, very hard to keep a straight face and finding it to be more of a struggle than he'd anticipated.

"A zombie," Charlie insisted sulkily.

"What, like this is some kind of B horror flick?" Shannon smirked incredulously, then lowered her voice in an imitation of a movie announcer. "_Island of the Zombies_."

"Look," Charlie decided to bust out the heavy artillery right away, "Locke's seen it. Do you need me to get _him_ down here to explain things to you?" The pair immediately sobered, which both gratified and annoyed Charlie. Apparently, no one on the island would be taken seriously unless they could back up their assertions with either a ludicrous number of sharp, pointy things, or a person who _possessed_ a ludicrous number of sharp, pointy things. It just wasn't fair.

"I've seen it, too," Steve added gravely, having recovered from his earlier fit. "Well, _him_."

"Him?" Sayid raised an eyebrow.

"Ethan," Charlie said flatly. "He's out there somewhere."

There was a long pause.

"Ew," Shannon commented. "So he's all, like... falling apart?" She wrinkled her nose.

"He's not _that_ dead yet." Charlie said with poorly-concealed scorn.

"What does Locke want us to do?" Sayid inquired before any actual spats could occur.

"Keep an eye out," Charlie shrugged. "He's not exactly difficult to deal with if you see him coming." He paused, then added as an afterthought, "You might try removing his head if you get the chance. Locke reckons that might kill him properly. Nothing else we've tried has worked."

"What have you tried?" Sayid frowned pensively.

"Bashing him about with a stick and plunging a knife into his skull," Charlie said dryly.

"Perhaps we could use the fireworks... if we pointed them at him and fired them. Or we could strap the fireworks _to_ him and set them off all at once..." Sayid mused half to himself, then blinked and looked back up at Charlie. "We'll set up guards to watch out for him."

"Thanks." Charlie managed something like a smile, then turned and started to walk back towards the jungle, Steve trailing behind.

"Zombies, huh?" a voice drawled from a tent to their right. Charlie stopped, not even attempting to hide his exasperation. Sawyer lounged in one of the airplane seats; to all outward appearances, he was completely absorbed in a battered paperback copy of _Pet Sematary_. After a moment he marked his page, closed the book, and turned to Charlie with a smirk. "Don't that beat all."

"Did you _want_ something?" Charlie asked pointedly, not much in the mood for any sort of interaction with the asshole who stole Claire's diary.

"Easy, John Bull," Sawyer stretched languidly, the smirk never quite leaving his features. "I'm just a little curious as to whether or not I'm going to have to defend my stash from an army of the undead. Is that such a crime?" He cocked his head slightly to one side.

"It's not an army of zombies, it's _one_ zombie. And Sayid and Locke are taking care of things, so I doubt you'll have to worry." Charlie randomly glanced down the beach, hoping to find some excuse to leave. None was presented, much to his dismay, so he turned back toward Sawyer.

Sawyer raised his eyebrows, then sat back in his chair, his smirk widening. "Gotta hand it to you, Nigel. There are few people on this planet who can shoot a guy..." he paused to execute a mental count, "hell, four times and _still_ not manage to kill him."

Charlie could feel his face growing hot. "Sod off," he said sharply, turning away and continuing back toward the caves. Steve blinked in some surprise and hurried to catch up. "And it was _seven_ times," Charlie muttered crossly under his breath. Couldn't people _count_?

"Yeah... he's a bit of a..." Steve trailed off, motioning halfheartedly over his shoulder and looking sideways at Charlie.

"He's a bloody inbred redneck git," Charlie snapped impatiently, then immediately felt bad for taking out his frustration on Steve.

"Yeah, those were the exact words I was looking for." Steve nodded seriously.

Charlie shrugged sheepishly. "I shouldn't let him get to me."

Steve shook his head. "Sawyer gets to _everyone_. It's practically his job."

Charlie would have replied with something sarcastic, but that's when he heard the scream. He froze in his tracks, stiffening with panic at the horrible familiarity of it.

Steve frowned, craning his head to look farther up the path. "What..."

"Claire," Charlie said hoarsely, breaking into a sprint. The cry had come from further up ahead; he was certain of that much. He flailed frantically up the path, mentally berating himself. God, why had he gone to the beach? He'd left her alone. He'd made the same mistake he made before with the same result; Ethan had found her. He was an _idiot_, he should have looked after her _properly_...

He rounded a corner and saw her standing in the middle of the path and hugging her belly. She appeared to be alone, much to Charlie's confusion and relief. He skidded to a halt next to her, but she didn't look over at him or in any way acknowledge his presence. "Claire?" He touched her shoulder and tried to catch his breath. "What happened?"

For a moment, she didn't respond. Then she turned to Charlie with wide eyes, her expression achingly reminiscent of their last encounter with Ethan. "Did you see it?"

"I... no." Charlie turned to peer into the jungle, but he couldn't see anything besides bark and greenery. "No, I don't see anything."

Steve jogged up, clutching at a stitch in his side. "What the hell's going on?"

"I don't know," Charlie replied, turning back to Claire and repeated his initial question. "What happened?"

"I..." she looked down and shook her head, then stammered in a halting, increasingly frantic tone. "The caves... I didn't like it there, it didn't feel safe... I was going to go to the beach, I thought I might find... and then I _saw_ it..."

"Okay," Charlie said in what he hoped was a calming sort of way, "it's all right; you're safe." He glanced around again. "I don't see Ethan anywhere."

"No, you don't understand," Claire shook her head vigorously. _"It wasn't Ethan!"_

"It... what?" Charlie stared at her, baffled because he had no idea what she was talking about and frightened because she was clearly terrified half out of her mind.

"It was someone... _something_ else. I don't know..." she looked down at the grass and bit her lip. Charlie turned to look at Steve, who shrugged animatedly.

"I don't know any more than you do." He frowned and squinted into the jungle.

"Right." Charlie turned back to Claire. "Look," he said quietly, "the caves are safer than they feel, and they're definitely safer than here. I'm going to take you back, okay?"

"Uh... Charlie?" Steve interjected, staring wide-eyed into the jungle. "We have a problem."

"What kind of problem?" Charlie looked warily over.

"Well... the good news is, it isn't Ethan. The bad news is... it's definitely a zombie." Steve continued staring into the jungle, an expression of deepest disgust slowly developing on his features. "And it's... been dead a while."

"Oh, bugger; _another_ one?" Charlie stepped over to where Steve was standing and followed his gaze into the jungle. What he saw made his blood run cold.

It wasn't Ethan. It was the Marshall.

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Oh noes! Muahaha!

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steph: The sad thing is, I thought he was pretty cute before he turned evil. :P Don't you just want to _hug_ him?

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SKroberts: Nice of you to stop by! I won't tell her. ;) Glad I amuse!

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cryogenie: I've been thinking... I don't think Locke is the resident zombie expert. But someone else is... muahaha.

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Satara: Okay, the phrase "little tropical slut" cracked me up. I splorfed all over my computer screen. And I hope you think I handled Sayid, Shannon, and Sawyer as well as I'm supposedly handling everyone else. ;)

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szhismine: Thanks! Just wait till summer... I will be able to update a lot more often.

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Ainu Laire: Hahaha, crossover!

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Pointy Ears Are My Thing: Oh, man. We're in the same boat, there. It'll stay... I can't help myself. ;)

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GamgeeFest: Thank you, thank you! Jack will most likely continue to be a prick. ;)

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Megan Sleevewillow: Nah... it hadn't been dead too long. Glad you lurve!

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Swede85: Muahaha... there are so many options! I could turn _anyone_ into a zombie... though, to be honest, I'm so amused by the idea of Claire's baby becoming King Baby of the Zombies that it isn't even funny.

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Mint Sauce: And there was more pseudo-Chair! Aren't you lucky! ;)

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Quirky Writer: Hahaha! No, I'm not killing off Jack. Yet. I suppose I'm technically not killing off anyone... I'm turning them into the undead!

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Stahlfan125: I know... he's such a cutie when he isn't being evil! I just want to give him a big ol' hug. And Jack will continue to be portrayed in as unflattering a way as I can manage. ;)

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Esmarelda Gamgee: Me, too!

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Ember the angry Firedrake: I'm one, too. And no, he can't... so he's out recruiting! ;) And HA! You can't deny it!

Thanks for the reviews! They make me writhe with joy!

Platy


	5. Hurley

Another chapter! I only got a few reviews for the last one, and someone said that an author alert didn't go out... so if you may want to make sure you didn't miss chapter four. If you did, you'd find this chapter confusing, I'm sure.

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Disclaimer: This fic is not for everyone. People with a history of kidney disease, heart failure, anxiety disorders, halitosis, or scabies should avoid this fic. This fic should not be taken with alcohol. Women who are pregnant or who may become pregnant should consult with their doctor before reading this fic, and before boarding Oceanic flight 815 from Sydney to LA.

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Hurley was sitting in the caves, constructing a rudimentary volleyball net out of women's lingerie. The golf course had been a success, so he'd decided to branch out to other sports. Volleyball seemed like a natural choice; they already had plenty of beach. All he needed were two bamboo poles, and something that would suffice as a net. But Jin had a net monopoly going on, and Hurley wasn't about to try and explain to the guy that he wanted some of his essential fishing gear for recreational purposes. That left him with one option: make a net, or something like one.

Hurley hadn't immediately leaped to the idea of using lingerie; in fact, it was a last resort. The fact of the matter was this: if you tie a bunch of flannel shirts or denim pants or other cold-weather clothing rendered superfluous by a plane crash together, it gets heavy. He didn't want the poles collapsing under the weight of the net - that would be ridiculous. He also didn't want the net to sag right down to the ground in the middle - that would defeat the purpose. So he had been reduced to using the one kind of lightweight clothing that no one the island felt like wearing: provocative underwear. It was also ridiculous, but at least it was functional.

Hurley had tucked himself away in a corner of the caves that wasn't readily visible to those in the more populated areas - this was both to preserve the surprise, and to avoid the embarrassment of being caught fiddling with a pile of underwear that definitely wasn't his own. Making volleyball nets out of women's lingerie was like making sausages, Hurley had decided: the finished product might be something fun that everyone could enjoy, but that didn't mean you necessarily wanted to be caught in the early stages of production and have to explain yourself to people.

But despite the fact that Hurley was out of sight of the main entrance to the caves, he was well within hearing distance. And what he heard was People Freaking Out.

Hurley sighed. He honestly didn't get it; it was like no one on the island could be happy unless they were crapping their pants in terror over something or other. Didn't they find the constant anxiety exhausting? He had been scared plenty of times in his life, and found it unpleasant and often unnecessary. Sure, there was a monster on the island, and it had supposedly eaten the pilot, but he hadn't seen that happen. He'd also heard about some polar bears roaming around, but he hadn't seen those, either. All he had really seen, honestly, were boars. And he wasn't too worried about an animal that Locke and Boone were actively killing on a regular basis. But still, people somehow managed to find _something_ to spaz about every freaking hour or so. Hopefully the volleyball would help everyone loosen up.

Two things (or three things, depending on how you look at it) happened more or less simultaneously: the general sounds of People Freaking Out resolved themselves into a shouting match between Charlie and Jack, and Hurley realized that he didn't have a volleyball - something rather essential to the game - and furthermore, he didn't know how to make one.

"Damn it," he muttered, throwing down his building materials and standing up. There was no point in continuing with the net if he couldn't find a ball. Might as well see what all the fuss was about.

Charlie was glaring fiercely at Jack, who was standing there with his arms folded and shaking his head. Steve and Claire were standing a little ways off, Claire looking generally anxious and Steve looking like he couldn't decide if he should pull Charlie away or join in. Kate was standing next to Jack, apparently trying to restore order.

"Will you both just calm down?"

"I'll bloody well calm down when _he_ stops acting like _I'm_ a head case when _four bloody people_ have seen what I've seen!" Charlie snapped, gesturing accusingly at Jack.

"What you're all claiming to have seen is _impossible_." Jack shot back, arms still tightly folded.

"Oh, so we're all just making it up? Let's think real hard about this one, Jack; what happened the _last_ time you thought someone was making things up?" Charlie took an aggressive step forward, and Kate quickly stepped between him and Jack, who was beginning to flush with suppressed anger. "I think _I_ remember... you were _wrong_, weren't you?" Charlie continued over Kate's shoulder.

"Charlie," Kate said warningly.

"What?"

"Dude... what's going on?" Hurley interrupted, ambling forward.

Everyone whipped their heads around to glare at him, as if he had just said something wildly offensive.

"Locke didn't tell you?" Charlie asked, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Uh, tell me what?" Hurley raised his eyebrows slightly.

Charlie frowned. "Locke and Boone were supposed to find everyone here and tell them!"

"Oh, well, I was..." _sitting in a corner, playing with underwear for no real reason_. "I wasn't here." Hurley shrugged. "So, what's everyone screaming about?"

Kate sighed and looked down at the floor. Charlie turned to glare at Jack, who rolled his eyes. Claire bit her lip and looked at Charlie. Steve actually answered the question.

"We have a bit of a situation... with, uh, zombies."

Hurley blinked. "Zombies?"

"Yeah," Steve said, shrugging sheepishly.

"Oh." Hurley stood there silently for a moment, then turned and walked away.

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Desperately needing some time to think, Hurley had wandered down to an empty bit of beach and plopped down. He missed his headphones. If he had known just how long he was going to be stuck on the island, he would have tried to conserve the batteries a bit more.

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Dude... zombies.

Hurley shook his head.

__

Crap.

He shouldn't have joked about it. Joking had always been a comfort to him, since it tended to comfort those around him, thereby lessening the general negative energy that tended to thrive on the Island. But this was the one thing he _never_ normally joked about. And now with those damn numbers... he should have known better. He should have kept his mouth shut.

But Charlie had been digging away with such an awful, grim expression on his face that Hurley didn't.

And now look. Zombies. Great. And it was all his fault.

__

Well, Hurley's brain offered in an unusually brisk tone, _you're just going to have to do something about it, aren't you?_

"No way, dude," Hurley muttered aloud. What was he supposed to do, anyway? He fainted at the sight of blood, for crying out loud.

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You weren't always that way, his brain said, now sounding distinctly sly. _Not before the hospital..._

"Shut up," Hurley said a bit louder. He didn't particularly enjoy thinking about the hospital, and he knew better than to think about the time before. Better to pretend none of it had happened; heck, that had been the whole _point_, as far as he could tell. Pretend none of it had happened, and if he was convincing enough, they'd let him go. And they _had_ let him go, eventually.

But when you pretend for a long enough time, and with enough conviction... well, eventually you start to forget that you're pretending. You repeat a lie so often that you actually start to believe it, and the next thing you know...

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...you're fainting at the sight of blood.

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You never fainted before.

Hurley really, _really_ missed his headphones. It made his brain that much easier to ignore.

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Look, it really isn't that complicated. You can get yourself a weapon or something. Maybe you can yoink that axe that's been around, or make one out of shrapnel--dude, one of Charlie's shovels! That would be... wait... dude, what the heck is that?

Hurley sat up slightly and squinted out at the ocean. It had been a calm afternoon, with one small wave lapping the shore and sliding neatly under the next, but now something was disturbing the water. A dark bump rose out of the ocean about twenty yards out, reminding Hurley of the blurred "photographic evidence" of the Loch Ness Monster he'd seen in books as a kid. As he stared, the bump slowly moved towards shore, rising further as it did so.

It was a head. A head topped with a combination of stringy hair and seaweed. As it neared the beach, more of the body was exposed. Hurley just barely managed to not gag. The skin - where it was still intact - was horrifically bloated from prolonged exposure to water, and a sickening shade of green that clashed horribly with the orange swimsuit it was wearing. But most of the skin was _not_ intact: the body looked as if it had been _nibbled_, in some spots right down to the bones.

Hurley couldn't move. The name "Johanna" drifted lazily through his mind as he stared in growing horror at the figure, which was slogging slowly but steadily toward the shore. The hair and seaweed mercifully hid whatever was left of her face. A low gurgling sound emanated from behind the hair and seaweed curtain, and Hurley watched as a half pint of water and a small, wriggling fish plopped into the ocean. Then, Hurley did the least sensible thing his mind would have been able to think up, had it been fully functioning at that point.

He fainted.

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Hurley woke up some time later, the sky above him a sunset pink. He sat up slowly and looked around. Nothing. He let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, then stood up. Maybe he had just imagined it all. Some sort of heat-related hallucination.

But there, in the sand next to where he'd been lying, was a sloppy trail of footprints stretching from the water's edge to the jungle. The sand around the prints was still very slightly damp.

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Oh, crap.

Hurley frantically checked himself for bites, "Oh, crap" repeating over and over like a mantra in his mind. When he found no bites anywhere, he only relaxed a little. He hadn't been bitten, and there weren't any zombies around but if more of them kept turning up, it was only a matter of time before _some_one was caught sleeping or not paying attention. And things would only go downhill from there.

Hurley brushed the sand off his pants and headed briskly for the caves.

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Woo! There's another chapter for all y'all! More shall come, hopefully with more regularity now that it's summer.

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Quirky Writer: Indeed it does! And I will... hopefully more often now that I actually have time. ;)

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Ember the angry Firedrake: The dead just don't stay dead in this fic, unfortunately. But yay, I'm glad you liked my Sawyer! He's surprisingly fun to write.

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Megan Sleevewillow: And now Johanna as well! OH NOES!

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GamgeeFest: Hopefully you got an alert for this one. Raa. Her hair IS too perfect, darn it... isn't it humid in the jungle? She should have frizz!

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Swede85: Pretty much anyone who has died so far in the show is going to show up as a zombie... well, maybe not Arzt. We shall see.

Only five reviews... oh, well. Hopefully more people will find this chapter. I love you all!

Platy


	6. Everyone Listens to Hugo

Author's Note: Yes, I'm suddenly back after more than a year! This is because I've graduated from college and I suddenly have time to write for fun. The fact that season two of "Lost" greatly disappointed me also factored in, since _this _little beauty is set in season one. This means I can make all the stuff about season two that I hated go away. Ta, button. Hello, respectable Locke.

Anyway. I'm still a bit leery of this site, so this chapter (and eventually the rest of this fic) shall be backed up over at my fic LJ, the link to which is on my bio page. If I disappear again for longer than a month or two, check over there. I may have moved.

Without further ado… chapter six!

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Hurley arrived back in the caves just in time for more mayhem. The scene was nearly identical to the one earlier that afternoon: Jack was standing with his arms folded, Kate was next to him, and an assortment of castaways (Charlie, Claire, and Steve included) was clustered around the pair.

"Look," Jack said with what sounded like the last frayed remains of his patience, "clearly there is some kind of... of mass hysteria going on here. We're all tired, we've all been under a lot of stress--"

_"Stress?"_ This was Michael talking, now; he had one arm around Walt's shoulders and was using the other to gesticulate angrily. "Man, Walt didn't even _know_ about the pilot! How the heck would he have hallucinated--"

"If he heard someone else talking about it," Jack began, throwing a significant glance in Charlie's direction. Charlie, in turn, began to sputter indignantly.

_Oh, crap. The pilot, too?_ Hurley sighed. It wasn't surprising, given the fact that all the dead seemed to be rising. At least, Hurley thought, they'd had the foresight to burn those in the fuselage. God only knew how many other bodies lay scattered around the Island.

"I _didn't_ hear anyone else talking about it," Walt insisted in that sulky tone children use when they know adults aren't really listening.

"Hear that?" Charlie gestured towards Walt.

"Jack," Kate said quietly, "I don't think they're making this up."

Jack threw up his hands. "Now _you're_ siding with them?"

"I'm not _siding_ with--"

"DUDES."

Everyone fell silent and turned to stare at Hurley, who was too busy blinking in shock over his sudden outburst to say anything at first. After taking a few moments to gather his thoughts into some semblance of order, he cleared his throat and began.

"Right. So, as some of you already know, there are a few, uh, zombies. Out there." Jack rolled his eyes and looked put upon, but didn't interrupt. "Yeah. Anyway, since _I_ don't want to be eaten... and I'm sure none of you guys want that, either... I'm thinking maybe we should do something about it."

"What are you suggesting?" Jack asked, raising his eyebrows.

Hurley thought for a moment, trying to ignore the fact that everyone's eyes were focused on him. "Well, for tonight, we're going to have to set up guards all around the caves, and make sure none of the zombies get past us." No one booed, so he continued with growing confidence. "Then we can make some weapons and start, you know..." he trailed off, then made a chopping gesture with one hand. "Off with their heads... and stuff."

Everyone stared. Hurley squirmed a little, then waved a hand dismissively. "Just an idea."

"Were _you_ a professional zombie killer in your previous life?" Steve asked half seriously.

"Nah, I wasn't professional," Hurley found himself saying before he could censor himself.

Everyone stared harder. There was an awkward pause.

Jack broke it by laughing without humor. "You've gotta be kidding me," he muttered under his breath.

Jack, of course, did not believe in zombies. But all the castaways who had seen one--and all the castaways who hadn't seen one personally, but knew someone who had--_did_ believe in zombies and were willing to put their faith in anyone who seemed to know a thing or two about the habits of the undead. Hurley, as fate would have it, knew a thing or five hundred.

"Then let's get to work." Locke stepped up out of nowhere and smiled at Hurley, who tried to smile back and couldn't quite manage it. "We can take shifts on guard duty, and post torches every fifteen feet around the perimeter. Boone?"

"I'm on it," Boone said, heading purposefully into the crowd to look for volunteers.

Charlie wove between a few people and stopped in front of Hurley. "You seriously _killed zombies_?"

"That's _awesome_," Steve said, having followed Charlie over with Claire in tow.

"That _is_ something I'd like to hear about in more detail, if you don't mind," said Locke, tilting his head to one side.

"Uh, sure." Hurley started to head to a more secluded section of caves, realized that he was walking towards his lingerie stash, and hurriedly changed direction. He finally sat down in a hollow big enough to comfortably seat several people. Locke, Steve, Charlie, and Claire sat down as well. Hurley didn't remember Claire expressing particular interest in his backstory, but after noting Charlie's hand placed protectively (and perhaps a little possessively) on Claire's back, he chose not to comment.

"Right. So." Hurley took a deep breath, then began to talk.

_No matter how hard he thought about it, he could never quite recall how or when the whole Zombie Thing had begun. He knew it must have been sometime around his junior year of high school, but he wasn't certain. Sometimes, if he really concentrated, he could dimly recall a man in a battered trilby handing him a shovel and asking him for "help with a little something" in the orange glow of a streetlight. But that was all._

_Somehow, it had become a routine. Once the sun set, Hurley went for a stroll. He told his mother he had Restless Legs Syndrome to keep her questions at bay. Before he left the driveway, he made sure he had his shovel. Then the zombies came. And Hurley killed them._

_He was never quite sure if he was finding the zombies, or if the zombies were finding him. But at least one showed up every night, without fail. He bludgeoned them with his shovel at first, then bought an aluminum baseball bat. His mother thought he was getting into sports and was delighted._

_Unfortunately, the zombies didn't always show up early for Hurley's convenience. Some nights, he wandered until three or four in the morning before he found one. He would be exhausted the next day, too tired to keep his eyes open in class. His grades began to drop. Explanations for the change were demanded._

_Hurley was bad at lying._

_And Catholics don't really believe in zombies._

_So he was institutionalized, which broke his mother's heart. It didn't take him long to figure out that all the doctors really wanted was to hear him say--with conviction--that none of it had ever happened. So he worked on it until he could. It took him a while; heck, it took years--years to forget their shuffling, jilted gait, years to forget the sound a head makes when it's smashed in by a baseball bat, years to forget the way the lukewarm blood splattered against his face. But eventually, he was able to say without a shadow of a doubt that the whole Zombie Thing had never happened. In fact, he told them, he fainted at the sight of blood. It had all been a ludicrous hallucination, but he was better now, he knew fantasy from reality, his Restless Legs Syndrome had cleared up, he was fine. And he really wanted to just go home and try to resume as normal a life as anyone could hope for. He was thinking of getting a job somewhere, maybe a fast food place. He was cured._

_They let him out of the hospital. He got a job at a fast food place and tried to lead a normal life. But part of him was always waiting for something, something he was supposed to have forgotten._

_And now it was here._

"So you were like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, only with zombies?" Claire asked.

"Yeah."

"Hurley the Zombie Slayer," Steve supplied. "Only you didn't have wacky sidekicks." Charlie mumbled something that sounded a bit like, "He does, now."

"Pretty much." Hurley raised his eyebrows at the ground, waiting for jeers that never came.

"Well, we'll rely on your expertise," Locke said, smiling and clapping Hurley on the back. "How do you suggest we take care of them?"

Hurley sat up, trying to hide his surprise. He had never thought he'd mention the Zombie Thing again, and he had certainly never expected people to believe him. Now here he was sitting in a circle of people who believed him, supported him, and wanted to help him do the job he'd sworn to forget. "You have to go for the head. Either knock it off, or just hit it really hard."

"We _did_ that." Charlie frowned. "Hitting it really hard, at least."

"No, dude, you have to," Hurley grimaced a little, "really _smash_ it. You can't just hit it or poke it or stab it, you've gotta..." he trailed off, then repeated his chopping hand motion. "The brain has to be totally destroyed." He paused, then added as an afterthought, "Unless you're just knocking its head off. Then it doesn't matter."

Claire had paled drastically, and Steve and Charlie were both looking a bit green. Locke merely nodded and said, "Sounds doable."

"Are the caves going to be safe enough?" Claire shifted, a hunted look in her eyes. "Should people move to the beach?"

Hurley shrugged. "It's not about the location. I think pretty much everywhere is equally safe."

"Or unsafe." Steve raised his eyebrows.

"All that matters is having people keep watch. Zombies aren't that fast, but they can be quiet when they want to be. You see them coming, you're okay. You don't..." Hurley shrugged again. "I dunno. Just don't get bitten."

"What happens if you get bitten?" Claire asked hesitantly, sounding as if she already knew the answer.

"You turn into one of them."

There was a sober silence.

"Well," Locke said cheerfully, rubbing his hands together, "let's get to it!"


	7. Shannon

**Disclaimer:** I don't own LOST. Also, Shannon's opinion of Suave hair products does not reflect my own.

She really couldn't believe the huge deal people were making about these supposed "zombies." _She_ certainly didn't believe in them. Charlie was probably just making it up to get attention since saying, "I'm in Driveshaft," didn't work (why he was so eager to associate himself with that godawful band was beyond her).

Besides, even if there _were_ zombies, she figured Sayid would protect her. That guy was _ripped_.

"Ugh, who honestly buys _Suave_?" Shannon snorted, chucked the bottle aside and continued rooting through Sawyer's stash of hair products.

"I dunno," Sawyer drawled, casually flipping a page in his book. "Someone thrifty?" He paused, eyed Shannon (who was rolling her eyes), then shook his head and said, "Princess, you'll be _begging_ for the Suave once the pricier stuff runs out."

"'Runs out'? Like we won't be rescued by then." Shannon straightened for a moment, tossed her hair back, then bent back down and rummaged with a bit more gusto.

Sawyer lifted a shoulder and smirked. "Whatever you say." After a moment, he shut his book and leaned forward. "And what were you gonna pay me with?"

"I'm surprised it took you this long to ask."

"I was busy admiring the view," he shot back with a leer.

Shannon scowled and hastily straightened, having forgotten how short a skirt she was wearing. She turned to face him and held up a copy of _Tales From Watership Down_. "It's the sequel. Boone stuck it in my bag because it wouldn't fit in his."

Sawyer grabbed the book with a "hot damn" that sounded a bit more genuinely enthusiastic than he could have intended. "You're bartering your brother's goods?" he asked, examining the cover.

"He's my step-brother," came the automatic correction. "Besides, do you think he has time to read it when he's always following that Locke guy around? Aha." She held up a bottle of Tresemmé and waved it at Sawyer with a victorious grin. "At least _some_one on the plane had taste."

"Ooh, la la," Sawyer said with a sarcastic, dimpled smile before returning to his book.

As Shannon strolled away from Sawyer's tent and towards the jungle (she had found a small creek not too far from the beach where she usually washed her hair), Sayid approached her.

"Shannon," he looked at the shampoo in her hand, then in the direction in which she had been walking, "where are you going?"

"To wash my hair," she replied, waving the bottle for emphasis. Wasn't it obvious?

"Given the circumstances," Sayid said, furrowing his brow, "it may not be wise for you to wander off into the jungle alone."

Shannon stared at him, uncomprehending, then scoffed incredulously. "What, you mean with the 'zombies' out there? You actually _believe_ that crap?"

"There are dangers enough in the jungle even without zombies," he chastised. _How can he say that with a straight face?_ After she continued to stare at him, he added, "I speak only with your safety in mind."

Shannon sighed in exasperation. Why did he have to be so _cute_? "So what are you suggesting? Should I _not_ wash my hair?" Unthinkable.

"All I am saying is that it may not be wise to go alone." He raised his eyebrows slightly, and Shannon found herself wondering if he was planning on physically restraining her if she tried to go off into the jungle by herself. Would she mind if he was?

"Look, thanks for worrying about me and all that, but I really think I can handle washing my hair by myself. Seriously. I'll be fine." She flashed him a quick, reassuring smile, then stepped past him and headed into the trees. He didn't follow her or try to stop her. _Hmph_.

As she walked, she considered what she would say to Charlie nect time she saw him. His zombie nonsense was getting everyone all worked up for no reason, and while she didn't _mind_ increased attention from certain Iraqi studs, she didn't want or need to be babied. She was twenty years old, for god's sake, and she got enough babying from Boone. She did _not_ need it from Sayid, too.

The short hike to the creek was uneventful and almost pleasant. Birds were chirping or squawking or whatever, and she didn't hear anything else moving around out there (which didn't surprise her--she'd never been bothered at the creek before). She didn't even have to worry about other castaways, because she'd kept the creek a secret. Sure, Boone would have chewed her out for not immediately sharing the location of a fresh water source, but there was plenty of water in the caves. Why should _she_ have to give up her privacy? Besides, the hike to the caves would do those other people good, assuming they didn't just wait for the doctor to bring water to the beach.

The creek itself was easy to miss. A narrow thread of water wove its way between mossy rocks, its cheerful trickling often masked by the wind and other various jungle sounds. Shannon picked her way upstream until she reached the waterfall. It was small (maybe three feet high), and the volume of water passing over its edge was comparable to the flow of your average kitchen sink. But it was great for washing hair.

Shannon set down the bottle of shampoo and ducked her head under the modest flow, allowing the cool water to soak her hair. Other people could call her shallow all they liked. In a situation where clothes couldn't be properly washed and meals were never certain, she figured she could be forgiven for indulging her hair; it's not like she had control over anything else. And, she reflected as she worked in the shampoo with her fingers, it was something to do besides trying to translate those maps.

It wasn't until she was rinsing her hair that she realized she'd forgotten her towel. _Damn_. She finished rinsing, then squeezed the excess water out of her hair. A proper drying would have to wait until she got back to the--  A rustling in the bushes interrupted her thoughts. She frowned, peering through the trees. "Vincent? Is that you?" The rustling continued, and Shannon took a step backwards. Charlie's voice echoed in her ears: _"There's a zombie in the jungle."_ But he'd just been making it up... hadn't he?"

"Vincent?" Shannon's voice shook.

The rustling stopped.

Shannon swallowed. Then, still staring in the direction from which the sounds had come, she slowly bent down and retrieved the bottle of shampoo. Just as slowly, she straightened. Still nothing.

Perhaps she'd just been imagining things. With a small sigh, she turned to leave.

Shannon's scream pierced the relative calm as she instinctively leaped backwards. The scream was shortly followed by an indignant (and not a little embarrassed), "You _asshole_!"

Sayid raised an eyebrow. "Did I startle you?" He had been standing just behind her, quietly waiting for her to notice him. And notice him she had--just not quietly.

"Of _course_ you startled me!" Shannon smacked his shoulder, and his lips quirked upwards into a faint smile. "Jeez!"

"My apologies."

She glared at him until she had recovered her nerves, then snapped, "So what are you doing out here? Spying on me?"

"I prefer to think of it as protecting you," he said mildly.

"Well, I don't _need_ protection." She added, with no small trace of scorn, "It's not like there are any zombies out here."

Sayid's expression changed from faintly amused to serious. "I do not know about zombies. But I _do_ know that it was not a zombie who kidnapped Claire; it was a man, and he was not alone. _We_ are not alone, here. Zombies or no zombies, it is not safe for you to be out in the jungle by yourself."

It may have been a very gentle and reasonable scolding, but it was a scolding nonetheless. Shannon _hated_ such reprimands; they made her feel like she was five years old. So she scowled at the ground, looking not unlike a pouting five-year-old.

"Shannon," Sayid said, touching her shoulder.

She twisted out of his grasp and stepped backwards. Her eyes began to sting. _Great, now I'm going to start crying._ "Just leave me alone," she said.

Sayid gazed at her for a moment, then shook his head once. "I can't do that."

"I _said_," Shannon began, her composure swiftly unraveling. But the rest of her sentence was replaced by another high-pitched shriek. But this was not a shriek of surprise because Sayid had startled her. This was a shriek of terror and pain because Ethan had staggered out of the bushes behind her and sunk his teeth into her shoulder.

_"Shannon!"_ Sayid leaped forward and, without even a moment's hesitation, drew his fist back and punched Ethan in the face. The zombie staggered backwards with an irritated "urrggh." Shannon stumbled forward, her left hand clutching her injured right shoulder. "Come on," Sayid grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

"Urrrgggghhh!" Ethan attempted to follow, but the dropped bottle of shampoo had spilled a small but slick puddle on the jungle floor. His foot hit the slippery patch and slid forward and upwards, sending Ethan toppling onto his back. He writhed clumsily, groaning in frustration.

"Oh, god, Charlie was _serious_?" Shannon stared at Ethan in horror.

"Run," Sayid replied, grabbing her uninjured arm. Together, they sprinted back to the beach.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

Hurley, Steve, and Boone were heading down towards the beach. After adequate volunteers had been found to keep watch at the caves, Locke remembered that no one on the beach had been warned since Charlie's earlier trip. Boone had offered to go down, and Locke suggested Hurley go as well, since he was "the resident zombie expert." Charlie had wanted to stay behind with Claire (he hadn't said so outright, but it was obvious), so Steve offered to tag along. Hurley and Steve had equipped themselves with the rough shovels Charlie had made. Boone had the axe and a torch.

The fire-lit beach appeared to have several guards posted, but there was no trace of the panicked air that had permeated the caves. People were lounging by their fires, eating fruit, and occasionally darting half-interested looks at the newcomers. _They don't know,_ Hurley thought to himself. _They have no idea what danger they're in._

"We should probably find Sayid," Steve said, squinting down the beach. "That's who we told last time." Boone frowned slightly at the mention of Sayid's name, but Hurley agreed and headed down the beach, picking his way between the fires.

They found Sayid under his tarp with Shannon. He was using a damp cloth to dab at her shoulder, which was steadily oozing blood. Even in the ruddy light of the fire, Shannon looked ashen.

"What happened?" Boone immediately jammed the torch into the sand and kneeled down next to his step-sister.

"Shannon was attacked in the jungle," Sayid said tersely.

"Crap," Hurley said, looking at the wound with wide eyes.

"What do you mean, 'attacked'? Who attacked her?" Boone put his hand on Shannon's shoulder. She blinked at him, then wrinkled her nose and shrugged him off.

"I'm _fine_, Boone."

"It was..." Sayid hesitated. "It was Ethan. He bit her."

Hurley amended his earlier statement. _"Oh_, crap."

"Wait, Ethan _bit_ her?" Steve glanced from Hurley to Shannon and back. "Doesn't that mean...?"

"Yeah," Hurley said, leaning on the shovel for support. _This is going to be awkward._

"Then... don't we have to..." Steve began, but Hurley winced and flapped a hand at him to shut him up.

Boone was glaring at Sayid. "Were you with her when this happened?"

Sayid barely spared him a glance. "Yes."

"Then why didn't you _do_ something about it?"

"Stop it," Shannon said wearily. "It's not his fault." She shut her eyes.

"Shannon?" Boone shook her shoulder gently.

"Go 'way... you're in... my... sun..." Shannon slowly started to slump to one side.

"Shannon!" This one came from Sayid, who had stopped dabbing the wound and was watching her intently.

Hurley gripped the shovel till his knuckles turned white. He had to say something. "Dudes..."

"Shannon," Boone sobbed. He'd caught her in his arms. She wasn't moving. Nor, Hurley realized after a moment's scrutiny, was she breathing.

She was dead.

Sayid stared at her body as if he couldn't comprehend what had just happened. Steve was leaning against his shovel, staring at the scene with a pained expression on his face. Hurley cleared his throat and tried again.

"Dudes, you need to get away from the body. Like, now."

Sayid glanced at Hurley but didn't move. Boone didn't appear to be paying attention; he was rocking back and forth, clutching Shannon's body and weeping.

"I'm serious," Hurley insisted, straightening and hefting the shovel. "Boone, move!"

"Hurley," Steve said shakily.

"She's gonna change any second!"

Boone looked up, saw the shovel, and continued looking up until his eyes met Hurley's. "What are you doing?" he asked in a low, dangerous voice.

"Shannon's a zombie," Hurley said. "If we kill her now, she won't have a chance to hurt anybody else."

"She's already dead," Sayid said, tearing his eyes away from Shannon's body and staring at Hurley.

"Not for long, she's not."

"Shut up!" Boone stood up, Shannon's body cradled in his arms. "She's not a-- she's-- you're _crazy_!"

"I," Hurley took a step forward, "am _not crazy_."

Sayid leaped to his feet and put a hand on Hurley's shoulder. "Stop."

"You don't understand! She's--"

"...alive," Boone whispered.

Sayid turned around. Everyone stared as Shannon stirred in Boone's arms.

"Eeeecccchhhh," Shannon said quietly.

"Oh, crap! _Put her down!"_ Hurley pushed forward, but Sayid held him back. Steve took an uncertain step forward, gripping his shovel and looking back and forth between Hurley and Shannon.

"Shannon?" Boone looked down at her. "Shannon, can you... _aaarrrgghhh_!" His head arched back in pain, throwing Shannon's face into the firelight. She was gnawing on Boone's neck.

"Holy _shit_!" Steve hesitated, then took a step forward, hefting the shovel.

"Stay... stay back!" Boone backed away from the three of them, still hugging Shannon protectively.

"Are you nuts? She's a zombie!" Hurley shouted. The noise was starting to draw attention from the other castaways, who were beginning to wander over, muttering amongst themselves.

"I'm not going to let you hurt her!"

"Dude, she's _chewing on your neck_!"

"Stay away!" Boone tossed a wild-eyed glance down at his late step-sister, who was still chomping away at his neck and shoulder with gusto. "It's okay, Shannon, I won't let them touch you!" And with that, Boone turned and stumbled into the jungle with Shannon in tow.

There was a long pause.

_"Crap!"_ Hurley threw down his shovel and gave Sayid a look. "That's two more! Why did you stop me?"

"I..." Sayid began before stopping abruptly. For the first time since they crashed on the island, he looked to be completely at a loss. If Hurley hadn't been so frustrated, he would have felt sorry for him.

But Hurley _was_ frustrated. He bent down, picked up the shovel, then straightened and looked at Sayid. "Post more guards and torches. If you see anyone acting like Ethan did, or like Shannon did just now, you have to either shop its head off, or smash its head _in_. Don't go feeling sorry for them, and _don't get bitten._ Okay?"

Sayid had been staring blankly into his fire, but he turned to face Hurley and nodded once, and unreadable expression on his face. "I understand."

"Good." Hurley motioned for Steve to grab the torch Boone had left in the sand. "Come on, let's go."


	8. Hunting Party Part One

Disclaimer: No actual zombies appear in this chapter, because they're all RIGHT BEHIND YOU.

OoOoOoOoO

Jack dragged a dead branch over to his growing pile of firewood and dropped it onto the dew-soaked grass. He cast about for a moment, then kicked at some low shrubs. "Where's the axe?" he asked no one in particular.

"Boone took it down to the beach last night."

Jack looked up sharply. Kate had been leaning against a tree a few yards away, watching him, but now she straightened. "We need to talk, Jack. About the zom--"

"Mass hysteria," he snapped. Kate opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. "It's practically a textbook case." He paused, then added, "Zombies aren't real," for good measure. This assertion was punctuated by Jack picking up one of the thinner branches and snapping it over his knee with more viciousness than was probably necessary.

Kate glared at him, annoyance outweighing any hurt his tone had caused. Like it or not, Jack was the unofficial leader, and people were looking to him for unofficial leadership. But they hadn't gotten any, because he'd spent almost all of the last twenty-four hours in a sulk that was only interrupted by flashes of exasperation. Kate was getting sick of it. Because of this, she suffered only a tiny twinge of regret after blurting, "From here, it's starting to look more like a textbook case of denial."

Jack whipped his head around to stare at Kate in disbelief. "What did you just say?"

Though she was sorely tempted to reply with a belligerent, "You heard me," Kate settled for an arched eyebrow.

Jack flushed. "Maybe you need your eyes examined," he huffed, picking up another branch.

"Good thing there's a doctor around," Kate said, trying and failing to hide a self-satisfied smirk.

"I'm a spinal surgeon, not an optometrist." Jack scowled and split the second branch with a sharp crack.

Now she was grinning outright. "Do you realize how ridiculous we sound?"

Jack threw down the branches and raised his eyebrows at her, refusing to be amused. "What did you _want_, Kate?"

Kate sobered and looked down at the jungle floor. "I came out here to tell you... Sayid, Shannon, and Boone are gone."

"What do you mean, 'gone'?" Jack rummaged through the remaining branches.

"Shannon--Shannon's dead." Kate pursed her lips, and Jack stopped mucking about with the woodpile to watch her. "Boone, from the sound of things, is probably dead, too. And by 'dead,' I mean..." she trailed off and looked up at Jack, who had folded his arms. "You know," she finished quietly.

Jack digested this. "What about Sayid?"

"No one's seen him since last night. He just disappeared into the jungle."

Kate waited for a response. After several moments of not getting one, she stepped towards him. "Jack, you can't keep ignoring this." For his part, Jack clenched his jaw and kicked at the woodpile as if to signify that _he_ thought "ignoring this" a perfectly acceptable plan of action. Kate straightened. "I'm going after him."

Jack glanced at her. "Who?"

"Sayid."

He shook his head. "No."

"Well, if 'zombies aren't real,' I'm not sure what you're so worried about. And if they are, wouldn't you rather have our only soldier _here_, not tromping around in the jungle by himself?"

"What about the bears? And the thing that chased us before?" Jack planted his hands on his hips.

"I'll survive."

There was a brief stare-down, which Kate won. "I want the guns," she requested with the confidence of someone who already knew they'd get a positive response. Because of her certainty, she was thrown when Jack brushed past her with a flat, "No."

"What do you mean, 'no'?" Kate stared after him, then jogged to catch up. "Jack, we need them to--"

"What do you mean, 'we'?" he echoed sarcastically. "You think _I'm_ going?"

Kate frowned, nettled. "By 'we,' I meant Charlie, Steve and I. Locke said he and Hurley should stay here to keep an eye on things, so I'm going to track Sayid, and Charlie and Steve will back me up."

Jack glared upwards, and irritated martyr. "Sounds like you have it all worked out."

"But we need the guns," Kate reiterated. "Not all of them. Just one for each of us."

"When Charlie gets his hands on a gun, he shoots first and asks questions later. And Steve--I don't even know Steve! I'm not going to be responsible for what they'd do if they were armed."

"But--"

"And furthermore," Jack continued, raising his eyebrows at her, "_if_ these so-called 'zombies' attack the camp, we're going to need all the weapons we've got. Wouldn't you agree?"

She refused to agree. He _did_ have a point, but he didn't believe what he was saying, so it hardly counted. "So we should just go into the jungle unarmed?" she asked, trying to hide her mounting frustration.

Jack looked at her, his expression softening by such a small increment that she wondered if she'd imagined the change. "No one's making you go into the jungle at all, Kate."

Kate wanted to say quite a few things regarding Jack's excessively paternal attitude, but she resisted. Barely. "If Sayid's still alive--"

"Sayid can take care of himself."

"Jack," she began, on the brink.

"You don't have to prove yourself to me or anyone else--"

_Oh, that's it._ Kate stopped in her tracks, gripped with a cold fury. "All right, _first off_, you're a spinal surgeon, not a shrink; _don't_ psychoanalyze me. Sayid shouldn't be out there alone, so I'm going to find him. I can't just wait for him to wander back into camp, with or without amnesia. So if you're not going to help me, just _say it_ and quit wasting my time."

Jack had stopped as well, and was staring at her with the special brand of shock he reserved for displays of open defiance. His mouth was open, though he didn't seem capable of using it for speech.

"No?" Kate raised her eyebrows. Jack shut his mouth, then looked down at the jungle floor and rubbed the back of his rapidly flushing neck.

There was an awkward silence.

Kate exhaled, grimly, illogically satisfied. Before he could say anything, she turned and strode off into the jungle, leaving him alone.

OoOoOoO

"He refused?" Steve and Charlie had been kneeling next to the small pool in the caves and filling water bottles, but now they were both looking at Kate with matching shocked expressions. Evidently, she wasn't the only one who had considered Jack's compliance a given. In fact, the whole master plan was based on an unspoken assumption that if anyone could get Jack to cooperate, she could.

Locke had discovered Sayid's absence early that morning. The "great white hunter," as Charlie called him, had taken Boone's death a bit hard and had decided to go down to the beach to ask Sayid for his version of events. But Sayid's tent was abandoned. Of the four guards on duty, only one had seen anything; he claimed that Sayid had spent an hour or two constructing a rudimentary scythe out of bamboo and shrapnel. Then he had packed the French Woman's maps in a rucksack, hefted the scythe, and disappeared into the jungle about an hour before dawn. Locke had found the trail, noted the direction in which Sayid had been traveling, and then returned straight to the caves to plan the next move.

Their hastily-devised plan wasn't a bad one (short and simple: Kate, Steve, and Charlie would arm themselves and follow Sayid's trail; if they moved fast--and he didn't--they might be able to overtake him before lunch), but it had all depended on Kate getting the guns from Jack. She'd failed, and a rapid unraveling of the plan was now inevitable: they couldn't go out into the jungle unarmed, making decent weapons would take a few hours at the very least, and there was an excellent chance that before they finished, the skies would open up in a deluge of Rain From Nowhere, wiping out Sayid's trail and bringing any search attempt to a screeching halt. And even if it didn't rain, Sayid would have a sizeable head start. They might not find him before nightfall, and it would take _more_ time--time they didn't have--to prepare for the possibility of a night spend out in the jungle.

It was because of all this that a not-so-little voice in Kate's head was repeating, _you're an idiot_, over and over, each successive repetition more emphatic than the last.

_You're an idiot.  _

_You're an **idiot**.  _

_You're a huge, huge idiot, Self. Idiot of the Year. Here is your shining Idiot Award. I'd like to thank the Academy..._

"What's the new plan, then?" Charlie asked, interrupting Kate's internal pity-party.

Kate exhaled, once again trying to rein in her frustration (though this time it was aimed at herself and not someone else). "Well. We can either go after him now, taking our chances with just knives and sticks... or we can take the time to make some weapons, hope it doesn't rain, and go after him later. If we choose the second option, we're going to have to plan for at least one night spent out there, since he'll have a bigger head start."

Steve looked up at the craggy ceiling as if he expected the weather forecast to be engraved in the stone. "And if it rains?"

"If it rains... that's it." Kate stared irritably into the middle distance. "There's no point trying to find him without a trail."

There was a brief, sober silence. It was broken by a yelp from Steve--Vincent had bounded up from behind and enthusiastically buried his nose in the unsuspecting man's crotch.

"Aww, he likes you," Charlie observed as Steve held the dog off until Walt (who wasn't far behind) could collect him.

Walt grabbed the dog's collar and clipped on his leash. "Sorry. _Bad,_ Vincent." The yellow lab, for his part, gave no indication that he even knew that "bad" meant. He snuffled at Steve's hand, tail fanning the air.

"Walt, you gotta keep a closer eye on that dog." Michael walked up, put an arm around his son's shoulders, and looked at Steve with some concern. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

"Just his dignity," Charlie supplied with a smirk. Steve scowled and walloped Charlie with his pack.

"Come on, you guys," Kate said sharply. They didn't have time for this. "We need to get moving. We'll just get some knives from Locke and hope for the best."

"Are knives going to be enough?" Steve asked, gratefully seizing the change of subject.

Michael looked at Kate. "What are you guys doing?"

"Sayid's disappeared. We're going after him," Kate explained.

"But we were counting on getting a few guns from Jack," Charlie added.

"And he didn't deliver," Steve finished.

"What, so you just need some good weapons?"

"Just that," Kate replied with what she hoped was only a small trace of sarcasm.

"We have those," Walt said, looking up at his father. "Dad, you could give 'em some..."  Charlie and Steve brightened, and Michael nodded half to himself. "Yeah, I started making some yesterday. Spears and stuff. Thought they'd come in handy; there aren't enough guns for everyone. I'll show you, come on."

Michael had, indeed, constructed some rather wicked looking weapons. Twisted or serrated bits of shrapnel were lashed to bamboo poles, sticks of driftwood had their ends roughly shaved down to dangerous points. "I made this one," Walt said with pride, pointing to a mace-like object that bristled with metal shards from end to end; other than telekinesis, Kate couldn't imagine a way of lifting it that wouldn't maim the wielder.

"Nice," Steve said, giving Walt a look of unsettled respect.

Kate picked up a spear. It would allow her to keep a bit of distance between herself and the zombies, and it could double as a walking stick. She hefted it, impressed by the decent balance and weight of the spear. Michael certainly seemed to know what he was doing. She tried to find this impressive and not kind of creepy, and mostly succeeded.

"I think we're set," Charlie said. He was holding something that looked like the ancestor of a baseball bat with a triangular shard of shrapnel pounded through the end. Steve was holding what appeared to be a giant mutant steak knife on a stick.

"Good," Kate said, nodding at Michael in thanks. "Let's go."

OoOoOoO

I have the next few chapters plotted out, so hopefully updates will be coming a bit more quickly, now. Thanks so much for reading!

Platy


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